ADVENT SUNDAY. Now it is high time to awake out of sleep: for now is our salvation nearer than when we believed.-Romans xiii. 11. AWAKE! again the Gospel-trump is blownFrom year to year it swells with louder tone, From year to year the signs of wrath Are gathering round the Judge's path, Strange words fulfill'd, and mighty works achieved, And truth in all the world both hated and believed. Awake! why linger in the gorgeous town, Alas! no need to rouse them: long ago With glittering robes and garlands sweet They strew the ground beneath His feet: All but your hearts are there-O doom'd to prove The arrows wing'd in Heaven for Faith that will not love! Even so, the world is thronging round to gaze On the dread vision of the latter days, Constrain'd to own Thee, but in heart Prepared to take Barabbas' part; "Hosanna" now, to-morrow "Crucify," The changeful burden still of their rude lawless cry. Yet in that throng of selfish hearts untrue Children and childlike souls are there, And Lazarus waken'd from his four days' sleep, And fast beside the olive-border'd way Stands the bless'd home, where Jesus deign'd to stay, The peaceful home, to Zeal sincere Still through decaying ages as they glide, When withering blasts of error swept the sky, And Love's last flower seem'd fain to droop and die, How sweet, how lone the ray benign On shelter'd nooks of Palestine! Then to his early home did Love repair, And cheer'd his sickening heart with his own native air. Years roll away: again the tide of crime On a crown'd monarch's mailed breast: Like some bright angel o'er the darkling scene, Through court and camp he holds his heaven. ward course serene. A fouler vision yet; an age of light, Thus bad and good their several warnings give In wilful slumber, deepening every hour, That draw their curtains closer round, The nearer swells the trumpet's sound? Lord, ere our trembling lamps sink down and die, Touch us with chastening hand, and make us feel Thee nigh. SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT. And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh.-St. Luke xxi. 28. Nor till the freezing blast is still, Till freely leaps the sparkling rill, And gales sweep soft from summer skies, As o'er a sleeping infant's eyes A mother's kiss; ere calls like these, Why then, in sad and wintry time, She has a charm, a word of fire, Not surer does each tender gem, Yet is He there: beneath our eaves Till in Thine alter'd voice be known But chiefly ye should lift your gaze Think not of rest; though dreams be sweet, THE EPIPHANY. And, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young Child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.-St. Matthew ii. 9, 10. STAR of the East, how sweet art Thou, When father, mother, nursing friend, Most dearly loved, and loving best, First bid us from their arms ascend, Pointing to Thee in Thy sure rest. Too soon the glare of earthly day Buries, to us, Thy brightness keen, And we are left to find our way By faith and hope in Thee unseen. What matter? if the waymarks sure 'Tis ours to mark them or forget. What matter? if in calm old age Our childhood's star again arise, Crowning our lonely pilgrimage With all that cheers a wanderer's eyes? Ne'er may we lose it from our sight, Till all our hopes and thoughts are led To where it stays its lucid flight Over our Saviour's lowly bed. There, swath'd in humblest poverty, On Chastity's meek lap enshrined, With breathless reverence waiting by, When we our sovereign Master find. Will not the long-forgotten glow Of mingled joy and awe return, When stars above or flowers below First made our infant spirits burn? Look on us, Lord, and take our parts Did not the Gentile Church find grace, She too, in earlier, purer days, Had watch'd Thee gleaming faint and far— But wandering in self-chosen ways She lost Thee quite, Thou lovely star. Yet had her Father's finger turn'd To Thee her first inquiring glance: The deeper shame within her burn'd, When waken'd from her wilful trance. Behold, her wisest throng Thy gate, Their richest, sweetest, purest store, (Yet own'd too worthless and too late,) They lavish on Thy cottage-floor. They give their best-oh, tenfold shame ASH WEDNESDAY. When thou fastest, anoint thine head, and wash thy face; that thou appear not unto men to fast, but unto thy Father which is in secret.-St. Matthew vi. 17. "YES-deep within and deeper yet "The rankling shaft of conscience hide, "Quick let the swelling eye forget "The tears that in the heart abide. "Calm be the voice, the aspect bold, "No shuddering pass o'er lip or brow, "For why should Innocence be told "The pangs that guilty spirits bow? "The loving eye that watches thine "Close as the air that wraps thee round"Why in thy sorrow should it pine, "Since never of thy sin it found? "And wherefore should the heathen see "What chains of darkness thee enslave, "And mocking say, Lo, this is he "Who own'd a God that could not save?" Thus oft the mourner's wayward heart Tempts him to hide his grief and die, Too feeble for Confession's smart, Too proud to bear a pitying eye; How sweet, in that dark hour, to fall On bosoms waiting to receive Our sighs, and gently whisper all! They love us-will not God forgive? Else let us keep our fast within, Till Heaven and we are quite alone, Nor fear lest sympathy should fail Hast thou not seen, in night-hours drear, When racking thoughts the heart assail, The glimmering stars by turns appear, And from th' eternal home above With silent news of mercy steal? So angels pause on tasks of love, To look where sorrowing sinners, kneel. Or if no angel pass that way, He who in secret sees, perchance May bid His own heart-warming ray Toward thee stream with kindlier glance, As when upon His drooping head His father's light was poured from Heaven, What time, unshelter'd and unfed, Far in the wild His steps were driven. High thoughts were with Him in that hour, Of spirits wean'd from worldly mirth, GOOD FRIDAY. He is despised and rejected of men.-Isaiah liii. 3. That ever dawn'd on sinful earth Sooner than where the Easter sun Shines glorious on yon open grave, And to and fro the tidings run, "Who died to heal, is risen to save?" Sooner than where upon the Saviour's friends The very Comforter in light and love descends? Yet so it is for duly there The bitter herbs of earth are set, All turn to sweet-but most of all That bitterest to the lip of pride, When hopes presumptuous fade and fall, Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried, Or Love the flower that closes up for fear When rude and selfish spirits breathe too neat Then like a long-forgotten strain Comes sweeping o'er the heart forlorn What sunshine hours had taught in vain Of JESUS suffering shame and scorn, As in all lowly hearts He suffers still, While we triumphant ride and have the world at will. His pierced hands in vain would hide The wildest storm the tongue can raise, But we by Fancy may assuage The festering sore by Fancy made, Down in some lonely hermitage Like wounded pilgrims safely laid, Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distress'd, That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest. Oh! shame beyond the bitterest thought Yet feel their haughty hearts untamedThat souls in refuge, holding by the Cross, Should wince and fret at this world's little loss. Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry, Let not Thy blood on earth be spentLo, at Thy feet I fainting lie, Mine eyes upon Thy wounds are bent, Upon Thy streaming wounds my weary eyes Wait like the parched earth on April skies. Wash me, and dry these bitter tears, Oh let my heart no further roam, 'Tis Thine by vows, and hopes, and fears, Long since-oh call Thy wanderer home; To that dear home, safe in Thy wounded side, Where only broken hearts their sin and shame may hide. EASTER DAY. And as they were afraid, and bowed down their faces to the earth, they said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen.-St. Luke xxiv. 5, 6. OH! day of days! shall hearts set free Enthroned in thy sovereign sphere Thou shedd'st thy light on all the year; |